Chapter 4
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By the time I get to the contestant transport terminal, I have repaired my door badly, sold three things I regret owning, ignored four calls from numbers I do not trust, and achieved the kind of sleep deprivation that makes every bright surface look personally judgmental.
I’m carrying one guitar case, one small travel bag, and the last intact fragments of my dignity.
The terminal rises out of the commercial dock district in a sweep of silver glass and polished steel, all sponsor banners and security drones and overdesigned confidence. Huge holo-displays spin over the entrance, flooding the concourse with light and motion.
GALACTIC EXTREME CHALLENGE
NEW SEASON. NEW LEGENDS.
“Mm,” I mutter, looking up at it. “Or new corpses. Depends on editing.”
Nobody hears me over the crowd.
The place is packed. Contestants. Production staff.
media scavengers. Families clinging to people who are trying to look brave.
Vendors pushing coffee, nutrition packs, branded merch, and tiny commemorative challenge helmets for children whose parents clearly hate peace.
Smells like roasted beans, hot metal, recirculated coolant, perfume, stress sweat, and that weird sweet ozone tang from security scanners.
I hitch the guitar case higher on my shoulder and keep moving.
I debated bringing it.
Then I looked around my apartment, at the stripped-down remains of a life that has always fit inside applause better than silence, and thought, No. Not leaving that behind. If I’m about to throw myself into a galaxy-famous torture pageant, I’m taking the one thing that still sounds like me.
Also, the case has hidden compartments, and a man in my circumstances respects versatility.
I step into the check-in line and immediately regret possessing eyes.
Gods.
These people are enormous.
Not all of them, obviously. There’s range.
A wiry human with climber’s hands and a shaved head covered in route tattoos.
A broad-shouldered Trinex woman in compression gear who looks like she could bench-press a shuttle.
A pair of sibling-looking Khepri in coordinated sponsor jackets, all chitin sheen and cool stillness.
One older man with a scar splitting his eyebrow and the dead calm gaze of somebody who has seen enough combat to find televised danger vaguely insulting.
And then there’s me.
Pretty. Hungover-adjacent. Carrying a guitar.
I keep my face neutral.
Inside, however, a much less dignified version of me is whispering, Oh, this is bad. This is aggressively bad.
A camera drone swings by and lingers.
I flash it my nicest smile.
You learn early, if you grow up with audiences, that fear and charisma use a lot of the same muscles. If you’re any good, people can’t always tell which one they’re looking at.
At the bag scan, a bored attendant gestures at the guitar case. “Open it.”
“Buy me dinner first.”
He doesn’t laugh.
Tough room.
I unlatch the case. The guitar lies inside in its molded cradle, dark lacquer gleaming under terminal lights.
Old, gorgeous, scarred near the bridge from a night in Jessa Prime when a fan threw a glass and I chose commitment over self-preservation.
The attendant scans it, checks the compartments, finds nothing worth confiscating, and waves me through.
“Next.”
I re-latch the case and move aside.
The departure lounge is a tiered open space with sweeping windows overlooking the tarmac.
Shuttles gleam outside like sleek predatory birds lined up for migration.
Screens along the walls loop challenge footage, sponsor messages, and contestant hype reels so intense they nearly qualify as propaganda.
I find a spot near a column and set my bag down by my boots.
Then I do what everyone does in a room full of future rivals.
I start studying the field.
A human woman in her forties stretches methodically beside the far windows, every movement precise, efficient, and absolutely joyless.
Former military, maybe. Or professional endurance.
Near her, a young Odex man scarfs down two protein bricks and reviews something on a slate with such concentration he could probably set paper on fire by glaring at it.
Three people over, a blue-skinned social influencer type is recording a message to followers.
“—and honestly, babes, I’m bringing both heart and hustle to this season—”
A giant Vakutan male in sleeveless gray athleticwear snorts so loudly half the lounge turns to look.
The influencer glares. “Do you mind?”
The Vakutan shrugs. “You sound weak.”
She straightens. “I have nine million subscribers.”
He takes a slow drink from a water flask. “Can they lift things for you?”
I choke on a laugh and look away before anybody notices.
The truth starts settling in layer by ugly layer.
I knew this would be competitive. I’m not stupid. Reckless, yes. Delusional in flashes. But not stupid.
Still, there’s a difference between understanding something abstractly and standing in a room where half the people look bred for impact. Bodies sculpted for power, endurance, speed. Faces set in game mode. Sponsor logos. compression sleeves. taped knuckles. quiet confidence.
This is not a bar fight with better lighting.
This is a machine designed to find the best monsters in the room and feed them a stage.
“Fantastic,” I murmur. “Love those odds for me.”
“Talking to yourself never projects confidence,” says a voice to my left.
I glance over.
A human man has taken the seat beside mine without asking. Dark hair, compact build, expensive athletic shoes, smile like a blade somebody polished for social use.
“You offering a service,” I ask, “or just wandering the terminal dispensing free wisdom?”
He laughs. “Dax.”
“Bron.”
His brows jump in recognition a split second too late to hide. “Wait. You’re that Bron?”
I give him a small, tired bow from the chair. “Occasionally.”
“Hell. My sister had a thing for you in college.”
“Your sister has exquisite taste.”
He grins. “You actually doing this, or are you here to perform at the send-off?”
I rest the guitar case against my knee. “I contain multitudes.”
“That sounds like yes.”
“It sounds like none of your business, Dax.”
That makes him laugh again, and I like him slightly less for how easy he is. Easy people often mistake that for safety.
He nods toward the room. “Some serious competition this season.”
“No kidding.”
“You worried?”
I look out across the lounge. A woman shadowboxes near the boarding gate.
A Khepri contestant does something with his shoulders that suggests bone configurations I don’t even want to contemplate.
The scarred older guy I clocked earlier is balancing on one foot with his eyes closed, like his nervous system is made of military doctrine.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Dax smirks. “Liar.”
“Of course I’m worried. I’m not concussed.”
He leans back. “I heard there’s a lot of endurance this season.”
“I heard there’s a lot of suffering this season.”
“Same thing if you market it right.”
“That,” I say, “is the most challenging thing anyone has said in this building.”
A boarding chime pulses overhead.
Contestants start gathering bags, straightening clothes, checking travel bands and comms. The crowd noise changes pitch—less waiting, more motion. That dangerous electric hum before something begins.
Dax stands. “See you on the shuttle, performer.”
“See you in the regrettable life choices arena.”
He gives me a finger-gun on the way out, which nearly makes me root for his early elimination.
Boarding is its own little parade. Staff in immaculate uniforms. Security scans. Production assistants hovering with tablets and false urgency. Cameras drifting along the queue hunting reactions.
I give them one over my shoulder as I step onto the ramp. Chin up, half smile, guitar case in hand.
If I’m going to be consumed by spectacle, I might as well season the meat.
The shuttle interior is sleek, overlit, and deeply committed to the fantasy that strapping a hundred adrenaline addicts into upholstered seats makes them civilized. Overhead storage snaps shut. Vents hiss. Engines hum low beneath the deck, a vibration I feel through the soles of my boots.
I stow the bag, keep the guitar case with me, and drop into my seat.
Across the aisle, the influencer is already taking filtered selfies.
Two rows ahead, Scar-Brow Military is reading a physical booklet instead of a comm screen, which I respect irrationally.
A production runner passes through handing out official contestant packets. “Rules updates, transit schedule, payout structure, emergency procedures. Please review before station arrival.”
Payout structure.
Now you’re speaking my language.
I wait until the shuttle lifts before opening it. The ascent presses me back into the seat. Outside the port, the city peels away in strips of light and smoke and geometry. Novaria’s urban veins flare beneath a haze of dawn glare, then thin into orbital traffic.
I should feel sentimental leaving.
Instead, all I can think is that the farther I get from the planet, the harder Mysk becomes to ignore.
I crack open the packet.
Regulations. Waivers. Conduct clauses that suggest somebody somewhere once tried to bite a host. Medical disclosures. Elimination conditions. Team phase adjustments. Sponsor bonuses. Penalty system. Advancement bracket.
Then, finally:
PRIZE PAYOUT SCHEDULE
There you are, sweet thing.
I lean closer, pulse ticking up.
Round advancement bonuses start modestly.
Useful money, but not life-changing. Enough to patch a leak, maybe pay a creditor long enough to stop growling.
Quarterfinal payout jumps sharply. Semifinal jumps again.
The final purse—plus sponsor multipliers, appearance premiums, and victory endorsements—is obscene.
I do the math twice.
Then a third time, slower.
If I make it through early rounds, I can buy myself time.
If I hit the semis, I can hurt the debt.
If I win—
I sit very still.